DarkWing: The Return
by Compulsive Writer
Summary: St. Canard, seven years later. Darkwing Duck is but a distant memory, and the innocent have suffered in his absence. Though the criminal element grows more powerful by the day, a brave few will always fight for what's right. But no one can stand alone, and as darkness falls a new hope is forged in the shadows of the past... Rated for language, violence, and adult situations.
1. Prodigal Daughter

**PRODIGAL DAUGHTER**

* * *

* 1 *

It has been a long time—far too long, in my opinion—and in my absence it seems all the world has changed. The city I remember from my childhood is no more.

Oh, the buildings are still there. The people go about their miserable, day-to-day lives as if nothing ominous lurks just beneath the surface. They do not know—can never know—the truth of what became of their world in the days following the ultimate sacrifice of their greatest savior. In the midst of that unspeakable tragedy, I promised the mysteries of the past would remain just as they were. Though sometimes I regret that promise.

Even so, I know beyond all doubt I must honor his last wish.

Idly stroking freshly washed red hair draped over a smooth shoulder, I stare out the window. The city is facing its latest challenge: a heavy downpour has been pounding St. Canard for hours. Not that the rain troubles me. I'm actually quite happy with the way things have worked out… though deep down I know quite well my reasoning is superficial.

"Goz? You have time for a chat?"

I don't need to turn to see my old friend in the doorway, but I do anyway. In one hand two glasses are perched, in the other a bottle of wine. Not cheap wine. This particular friend will spare no expense this day. "Time? I'm afraid time is one luxury I can't afford." I smile a sly smile before turning away. "But for you, I'll make an exception."

A long silence follows, and then the sound of the glasses as they are set on the nightstand by the bed, followed by the pop of the cork as it is unlodged. And then the wine is poured and our glasses clinked together in a toast that remains unspoken and we drink to old memories and days long past, gone but never forgotten.

A second round is poured and downed before my friend finally gains the courage to ask the question. "Will you stay?"

"I'm not sure."

It is no wonder it took so long to ask. There are others in St. Canard longing for the day that hope returns. Few know hope's true name, but my friend believes it to be me. The reasoning is sound, far more sound than my own regarding the cover of the rain.

Someone who has yet to truly make a name, to forge her own legend in the backdrop of a legend long since passed, has no need of any cover. The shadows are wasted on me. Unless I take up the mantle promised to me, if I so wish it. A mantle I have not yet made my own.

My friend is one of four in the city aware of my past, and the connections forged.

Still, it takes courage to ask such a simple question. If I stay it means that everything changes for these people.

Again.

I for one am not so eager to force change upon anyone, let alone myself.

Since his passing, I hold no true connections to this city or its people. I have only my friends, those long gone and those who refuse to let go of the past. But not even an entire bottle of wine would give me the courage to ask friends to turn their backs on their home.

What can I say? The truth is I don't have their courage. Not when it comes to connections. I find it too easy to turn my back. I did so for seven long years as the world I left behind fell to the shadows that were once held at bay by someone of far greater courage than myself. I could say that it was the promise that kept me away, but I would be kidding myself.

"Be honest, Goz. What brought you back?"

"I wish I knew," I reply calmly, and watch as more wine is poured, first for myself, then for my friend.

"Not courage?"

I snort. "If it were courage I would have taken up the mantle on the day he died."

"Loyalty then."

"Not likely. There's no one in this city deserving of that."

"Not your friends?"

"You know me better. If any of you were in mortal danger I would come in a heartbeat. That's not exactly the issue here."

"No, I suppose not."

But the damage is done. Our conversation ends, and we drink in silence until the wine is gone. Soon after my friend departs. I am alone. I'm used to being alone.

For a time I ponder the city below me in silence. Then I take up my black cloak and drape it over my shoulders. As I pull up the hood and open the window, letting in the wind and the rain, I breathe in the scent of the rain, drawing upon the inner courage I once left behind. Then I step out onto the balcony and into the night.

* 2 *

My father is buried beneath a massive stone statue of himself in the heart of St. Canard Cemetery. The headstone is marked with a simple passage: "Here lies Darkwing Duck. A Champion. A Hero. A Friend. May his memory be our strength and our courage."

I touch the plaque, my fingers meticulously tracing the name.

I've never stood beneath the statue. I've seen it only in pictures. I guess it does his big ego justice. Dad was never the most humble of guys. They got the pose right, too: Darkwing stands with his arms outstretched and tight fists holding his cape up menacingly. His hat is low, the brim hanging just above his bill. I can even see his spirit, the reservoir of righteous fury burning within, in the great stone duck's eyes.

I have to admit something: I don't regret missing his funeral.

To be honest, funerals aren't exactly my cup of tea. Especially state funerals filled with the pomp and circumstance and thousands of so-called mourners and dozens of self-important politicians looking to capitalize on death. Most spent their entire lives believing—or at the very least claiming—he was a menace to society. I wasn't interested in being patronized by thousands of fools who never really "got it" to begin with.

Besides, to most he was just Darkwing Duck. To some, a vigilante and a nuisance, to others, a protector and a champion of justice. And then there were some who knew him better than most. To them, he was a friend and ally. Fewer still knew he had a real name, and a family to go with it. In particular, myself, the daughter he adopted when I was only nine years old.

I would like to think I was the most precious thing he left behind. He never said so, even though his dying words were meant for me alone. I guess maybe he didn't have to.

When he died, I said goodbye to Drake Mallard in my own way. He wouldn't have wanted me caught up in the insanity of a state funeral anyway.

I moved away, and in the seven years following I never thought even once of the possibility of coming home, let alone visiting Dad's final resting place. Yet here I stand, lamenting my loss at the feet of Darkwing Duck… or rather, his statue. Somehow, just being near him gives me strength.

Even now the question lingers, unspoken, at the tip of my tongue. It's a question he couldn't answer even if he were somehow miraculously alive. I have to answer it for myself. But I'm not ready.

There is one other thing I haven't done since Dad died.

I keep my bill shut.

I'm not ready to start talking to the dead. Not yet.

* 3 *

"Gosalyn Mallard. Now this _is_ a surprise." Two grey, steely eyes bore into me through the crack in the doorway. The voice is a familiar one, and though sincere in his surprise, I can tell it isn't a pleasant thought for old Vladimir Grizzlikof. I sigh heavily, and return his glare. "What brings you to my doorstep at such an hour?"

"I'm not even sure what brings me to this hellhole of a city," I reply. "But I suppose if there's anyone out there deserving of a visit it's you."

"It's after midnight, girl," he says slowly.

"Well, I'm a bit nocturnal, I guess."

He softens and nods slowly. "I suppose it must run in the family."

"May I come in?"

"Yes, yes. Please do."

Grizzlikof once worked side-by-side with my father. He's a massive bear of a man—literally—with a gruff personality to match. He's Russian, and if you couldn't tell by the name you'd know for certain by his deep, rich accent. I don't know him as well as Dad used to, but I know the kind of man he is. He's tough and rigid with a no-nonsense attitude, but if you peel the hardened layers away you can find a warm and gentle soul lurking somewhere beneath.

He's also one of the smartest men I've ever met. A former government agent, now retired. He and Darkwing had clashed when they met, years ago, but in time they had grown to respect one another. There was a mutual trust between them. Once they had grown accustomed to their distinct differences, together they were an unstoppable force: Darkwing Duck and Vladimir Goudenov Grizzlikof, Agent of S.H.U.S.H.

I always felt a tad bit better about Dad's dangerous work when I knew Agent Grizzlikof had his back.

"Can I offer you anything? Cup of coffee? Hot shower?" As he asks he slips the wet cloak from my shoulders.

I smile. "You do know the way to a girl's heart."

He grunts as he hangs my cloak over the radiator to dry. "Do you even have a place to stay? How long have you been in town?"

"Got in this afternoon. I was… at the Javelin this evening. With Sabrina."

Vladimir's permanent scowl deepens. "I see. And how is the girl?"

"She seemed happy."

"I see," he says again. His scowl fades and he even allows the ghost of a smile to grace his features. "That is good. She deserves to be happy."

"She lives in the Javelin, Vladimir."

"And she's well cared for. I do not control her life, Gosalyn."

"No," I mutter. "Somebody else does."

"Adrian Poe is not a bad man," Vladimir says. "He's done all right by me."

"It's not Poe I'm worried about."

Vladimir nods after a moment's thought. "No. I suppose not."

He gently takes me by the arm and guides me into the living room. The place is most definitely a bachelor pad. It's a studio apartment on the top floor of a five story building. Neither spacious nor tidy, though there is a certain comfort to the air, an unexpected warmth. A glass sits on the coffee table in front of the couch with a little liquid left in the bottom. The bottle next to it is a rather popular brand of vodka.

A cigar rests in the ashtray. It looks as if he had only just lit it when I knocked. It had been stubbed out. Of course. It hadn't taken him long to get to the door. That was because he hadn't been in bed.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"Just bad memories," he replies bitterly.

"I'm sorry, Vladimir."

"Nothing to apologize for. I should be thanking you. Now get moving. Down the hall, door to the right. There're clean towels on the rack. Freshen up before you catch cold."

"You don't have to do this, Vladimir."

"I know. Now get going before I have to drag you there myself."

I grin at the threat. "Oh? Sounds kinky."

He rolls his eyes. I can tell he enjoys the joke by the small smirk on his lips. Finally I give in and do as he asks.

The shower feels good. Refreshing. Yeah, I need it. Like I said, Vladimir knows how to treat the ladies.

But I didn't come to indulge, so I make it quick. I towel off and run a brush through my hair before slipping into the robe he'd given me. I guess it used to be Sabrina's. Or maybe her mother's. I can't say. Vladimir's wife has been dead for a long time now, so it doesn't seem likely. There's always the possibility Vladimir has a lady friend. Either way, I don't ask him where it came from. None of my business.

He's sitting on the couch, a glass of vodka in hand, staring off into space. He doesn't seem to realize I'm watching him from across the room. I feel sorry for the old guy. A top agent of S.H.U.S.H. once upon a time, now reduced to an unemployed, lonely bachelor. In some ways I know exactly how he feels, but then, he's experienced loss in ways I could never understand.

"Come Miss Mallard. Have a drink with me."

I blink, slightly surprised he knows I'm there. I would have thought he'd have said something sooner. Then I smile. "Only if you call me Gosalyn."

He considers, then he smiles and nods. "Of course, Gosalyn."

And so I move closer.

I don't like vodka. Still, there's a connection between us. A mutual friendship that still binds us together. We drink to painful memories. We drink to loss. We drink to might-have-beens. I can see that he still holds onto some vague sense of hope that I once left behind. It surprises me coming from one who has seen such devastation in his lifetime.

"Your father was a great man," he says after a long time.

"I know."

"The city has lost its way without him."

"I can see that."

He looks at me. "Where have you been the last seven years, Gosalyn?"

"Traveling."

He smiles. "Traveling."

"I had to see the world for myself, Vladimir. Dad protected me for a long time. I needed to see the dangers of the world without him. He wasn't there for me anymore. I needed to learn to protect myself."

"And what did you learn?"

"That I was a fool. That the world used my father and eventually killed him."

Vladimir sighs. "In a sense, that's probably true."

I gave a shake of my head as I downed the remnants of my glass. "Of course it's true. Darkwing Duck did the dirty work and got swept under the rug in the end."

"He was honored."

"Honored? How? With a state funeral and a big goddamn statue? Dammit, Vladimir, I _know_ how he died. I was _there_."

"As was I. He did what he did because he had no choice."

"Sounds like coercion if you ask me."

Vladimir looks away. His tone is soft, somehow broken. "The worst of it was that he knew it was a suicide mission. He knew what had been asked of him, and he dove headfirst into the fray, no questions asked. He was determined to go out in a blaze of glory. His one regret… his _only_ regret, was the sacrifice he was forcing you to make. He had no second thoughts."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. Of course not. It's just something I felt you needed to know."

"Well, it might surprise you, but I knew Dad better than anyone, and I already knew that. He _never_ thought about the consequences. That doesn't make him a hero. It makes him a fool."

"The bravest fool I ever worked with."

I glance away, and then I slowly move to brush a tear from my eye that simply wasn't there. I don't cry anymore. It's been seven years, in fact. I cried for weeks on end after he died, until I was all cried out. And then I decided to disappear.

I left St. Canard—and my sorrows—in the rearview mirror. I took only my anger.

I didn't bother to tell anyone else where I was going.

* 4 *

I spend my first dawn in St. Canard since I was twelve standing at the picture window in the guest room, sipping on hot coffee. Vladimir makes a pretty mean cup of joe, I have to admit. A lot better than my own. I never had much desire or need to develop a talent for making it.

I'm alone now. Vladimir left a little while ago. Probably to make a run to the supermarket. I'm uninvited company, even if I'm more than welcome here.

I was smart enough not to let myself drink too much last night. I think Vladimir understood I wasn't exactly looking for a drink. I'm not entirely sure why I came myself. I think maybe somewhere down deep I was just looking for company, and for whatever reason Vladimir seemed like a good idea. He's a man who knows how to be gentle and soft-spoken, a bit more so than the other people I know who still live in St. Canard.

To get my thoughts off my troubles, I turn on the TV. I lower myself onto the sofa and begin to flip through channels.

Soon after my blood runs cold. Slowly yet effortlessly my slender body rises from the cushions. I stare darkly at the scene unfolding. These people are living in a world my father once fought and died for, but what I see on the screen breaks my heart.

"Heartache this morning at St. Canard Plaza where a gunman opened fire…"

I tremble with a mixture of grief and fury as I watch the scene unfold before me. EMTs load occupied stretchers onto ambulances. Sheets with telltale red splotches draped over unmoving masses. People sit about in a daze as paramedics and police officers hover over them.

"…at least twelve dead…"

I ball my hands into tight fists as I stare at the screen.

"…more than twenty wounded…"

I grit my teeth and close my eyes. This is what my father left behind.

"…fighting for their lives…"

His sacrifice… meaningless.

I shut off the TV and slump deep into the couch, letting the remote drop into my lap. My vision is blurred by the tears.

I'm crying for the first time in seven years.

When I finish, I slip a note under the empty vodka bottle on the coffee table and leave. My time with Vladimir is over. At least for now. I have other things on my mind.

* 5 *

The bridge is nothing like it used to be. S.H.U.S.H. was lightning quick and highly efficient in wiping clean any hint of evidence that the caped defender of St. Canard ever operated here. I'd never known. After Dad died, I didn't have the heart to visit. Looking back now, I wonder if they would even have allowed it. They had been so quick to act, so quick to show the public that the city's masked hero had fallen at the hands of evil.

After the funeral, they pretty much washed their hands of everything Darkwing Duck. They stripped the hideout of all his computers and gadgets and even his training facilities. Now it was an empty shell, vast and dark and silent.

It occurs to me that I've seen the place just like this once before.

Another time, another place. Another treasured soul left far behind. I sigh at the memory and wonder if he remembers me.

I move up the winding stairs to the top of the tower, where I find the very best view of the city where I had grown up.

There at the balcony I lower to the floor and lean up against the wall. I can see through the railing to the city beyond. With a sigh, I place my hands behind my head and lean back, soberly watching the world at work.

The view is pretty neat during the day, but at night it's ominous and exciting, especially in the humidity of the summer season when the fog from the bay rolls across the skyline. I think I'll have to come back tonight just to have another look before I put this place behind me.

I close my eyes and breathe in the city.

Here, far from the noise where I can simply watch the skyline from a familiar vantage point, it doesn't seem so bad. Most of the buildings are the same. There are two new structures to the south, and one missing from its place near the near pier three, almost directly across from the bridge. Further in is the Javelin, the hotel casino completed mere months after my father's death… and the location of his final battle against the criminal element that built it.

The sight of the Javelin, a towering structure that looks very much like a steeple jutting up from the ground and pointing to the heavens, draws me out of a moment of calm. I grow moody all over again. In this city, there's no such thing as escape.

I grunt to myself and let my head sink to my knees, wrapping my arms about myself. My cheek rests against my shoulder as I stare off into space.

The world as I knew it had changed so completely. It might look similar, but appearances are deceiving. I learned that the hard way, years ago.

I was never foolish enough to believe Dad was invincible, but I still believed… needed to believe. I didn't want to think anything could ever separate us.

But something had.

* 6 *

No second thoughts, I decide as I step onto the elevator and punch the button.

Dad never had second thoughts. Like I told Vladimir Grizzlikof… he never thought about consequences. Heroes can't afford to think about the consequences. Not for themselves, anyway. When innocent lives are at stake, choice is irrelevant. The true hero does precisely what he has to do, even if it means sacrificing everything he has.

I don't think that way. Dad did, and in the end, it cost him everything. It cost him his life.

The elevator opens up to the twenty-seventh floor, home to the offices of the Javelin's most prominent shareholders. Before me is a wide lobby, empty in the early evening save for a familiar face of a woman.

Her name is Clovis. A long time has passed since I last saw her. I doubt she would recognize me now.

She's sitting behind a desk. Beyond her is a long corridor leading to the offices.

I take a breath and move forward.

"I'm here to see Taurus Bulba."

"Appointment?" Clovis eyes me up and down. I force myself to stay relaxed. I twirl a lock of red hair in a finger as I watch back.

"I…"

"You're from Galahouse, aren't you?"

Galahouse? My mind races, trying to see if I have any recollection of something of that nature. It takes only an instant for it to hit home. Galahouse is one of the casino's entertainment venues. They specialize in performances curtailing to a very specific audience. I make an effort to keep my embarrassment from showing.

Clovis snorts softly as she peers down her snout at me. "His preferences get younger every day." She punches a button. "Mr. Bulba? There's a young lady from Galahouse here to see you."

A voice responds. "I had no such appointment." A hard voice. Familiar and cutting. I keep all emotion from my face as I stare at the floor.

"I'm a gift," I hear myself say.

"Gift?" Bulba replies curtly.

Clovis snorts again. "And who may I ask purchased your services?"

"I'm… afraid it was an anonymous gesture."

"An anonymous gesture, eh?" Bulba grunts. "Send her in, Clovis." He hangs up before she can respond.

She peers at me for a moment. "How old are you, girl?"

"Nineteen."

"New to the job?" she asks. "I've seen several girls come by to see Mr. Bulba, but I've never seen you."

"Well, yeah. Actually… this is my first private show."

Clovis frowns. "Show? Is that what you think this is?" She laughs then and gestures off down the hall. "Move along, girly. You don't want to keep Mr. Bulba waiting."

_Girly?_ I shake away a sharp retort and focus instead on her unexpected laughter. I don't have to think too long before I realize what is going on. She thinks I've been sent here as one of Galahouse's young newcomers. Taurus Bulba is supposed to "break me in", so to speak.

Galahouse is apparently a more… hands-on establishment than I initially thought.

Actually this works to my benefit. It gets me inside to face the man who has turned St. Canard into a cesspool of organized crime.

I realize as I approach that I'm not exactly dressed to kill. Bulba is going to expect something much more tawdry. I'm supposed to be a whore. I guess I'm going to have to improvise.

I let my dark cloak hang open. I undo the top few buttons of my blouse to expose a very generous expanse of cleavage. Far more than I'm comfortable with… but I'll survive. My hips sway from side to side as I walk.

To my surprise I first encounter a stranger as he exits one of the Javelin's many offices. Except that he's not exactly a stranger. Not to anyone who follows the news or has a pulse. Adrian Poe runs a hand through the black feathers on his head when he spots me.

"Oh… pardon me. On your way to Bulba's office, miss?"

I blink and bat my eyelashes bashfully, or at least I try to. "Well, yes, I am. Can you point me in the right direction?"

I try not to reveal my surprise to one of the hotel and casino's most notable owners. It's important to play the part of the naïve young prostitute. Adrian Poe is the wealthiest man in St. Canard. He inherited his family's fortune, built primarily on a chain of hotel casinos throughout the eastern seaboard. He announced the deal to build the Javelin in St. Canard a few months before Dad's death, and it was completed in record time, less than two years later. By that time, my father was long gone.

He smiles. There doesn't seem to be any sincerity in the smile. In fact, it seems like there is a sadness in his eyes. A sadness for me, perhaps? Or rather, the girl he thinks I am. I'm no weakling. The real me needs no pity. I deserve none and I don't want any. I show him a spirited smile after he points me on my way.

"Thank you!" I say as I continue on down the hall.

I never try to reveal I know who he is.

Bulba's double oak doors are as large and gaudy as I expect them to be. I approach after taking a deep breath. As I reach to knock, I am surprised for the second time since stepping onto the twenty-seventh floor.

One of the massive doors swings open. Beyond is a tall slender young buck with a gleam in his dark eyes. One of Bulba's henchmen? I don't recognize him.

"Shake it, toots," he crows as he ushers me in. "Mr. Bulba don't like waitin'."

Toots? I want to shoot him a glare, but instead I fake a shy smile and nod as I step through the door. The soft scarlet carpeting cushions my soundless footfalls, and I can't help wondering just how much cash Bulba forked over for such luxuries. Dirty money, without a doubt. They say that for every dime Bulba had made throughout his adult life, a dozen people had to die. I swallow hard at the thought. I remember to twirl a lock of red hair in a trembling finger for show as I peer quietly about the room. I'm supposed to be awed at everything I see here. Honestly, it's all very impressive.

"Come on in, girl," a deep voice grumbles as I stare about my surroundings. No expense spared to enjoy the lap of luxury. Sitting behind a massive oak desk is Taurus Bulba. He leers at me, and I unexpectedly miss a step as I meet his sour glare.

The last I had seen Taurus Bulba, he'd been draped in the technological wizardry of F.O.W.L. Now that I get my first look I can see much has changed since that time.

He had stayed out of the public eye in the years following Darkwing Duck's untimely demise. The heavy arsenal of weapons and the dark red armor that once covered his body has been removed, and he looks very much like his old self, before he was given his cybernetic enhancements. There are still patches of metal poking out of his flesh here and there, and his left eye has been replaced by a neural optic that shines with a red light.

"Well?" he grumbles as he leans forward at his desk.

I smile shyly, though my stomach turns at the thought of what he's expecting.

The buck closes in from behind. Warning bells go off in my head as he looms over me, but I fight back my instincts and allow him to take my cloak.

Bulba looks me up and down, his eyes linger a little longer on my chest than the rest of me. I lean forward slightly, trying to give an even more generous view. I need him as distracted as possible.

"You're what? Nineteen?"

I nod.

"Stage name?"

I consider momentarily and smile. "Daisy."

"All right. Show me the goods."

I blink. "Um… Okay. You sure you don't want to set the mood first?"

"No need. Take your shirt off."

"… Sure."

My fingers move slowly to the buttons of my blouse. This isn't exactly how I imagined my first meeting with Taurus Bulba in more than eight years.

I let the blouse slip from my shoulders to the floor. I know better than to cover my chest at this stage. I'm not watching the hungry stare I feel coming from him. I stare instead at the scarlet carpet. "All of it, bitch," he commands.

I look up then, prepared to offer him a piece of my mind.

But he's not watching me.

He's glaring at the monitor of his computer.

"All of it," he says again. "Don't make me wait."

"Uh… yeah." My fingers move to my belt buckle. I slip the accessory slowly from my waist. I am peeling my jeans from my hips when he speaks again.

"No weapon. I'm insulted."

I freeze.

I glance up just in time to see Bulba nod to his henchman.

I feel a sharp pain against the back of my head and a simultaneous flash of white in my skull.

In an instant, my entire world goes black.

* * *

**NEXT EPISODE: CAGED**


	2. Caged

**CAGED**

* * *

* 1 *

The world returns to me slowly. It is still pitch black even when I open my eyes to peer into nothingness. Regardless I can feel. I can sense the world around me. The air is stiflingly hot. I have no sense of time. How long have I been out?

I sit up and instantly regret the move as pain lances up my spine. I let out a moan and clamp a hand to the nape of my neck and tremble against the nightmarish ache. I look about, careful not to strain the misused muscle, but there is nothing to be seen, only intense blackness.

Am I blind?

Or… perhaps blindfolded. I touch my face but there's nothing there. No blindfold. I blink a few more times, searching for something, anything. There is nothing to see. Anxiety threatens to push my heart up into my throat.

And then there is a light. The corresponding pain forces me to flinch. There is the distant sound of a door being shut, and the light is gone. I draw a deep breath and push myself back until I'm sitting against a wall. My brain races with worry. Where am I?

"So the bossman says to me, we got a bit of a problem on our hands. And it aches down to the pit of my soul to see that he's right about that."

Blinding light pierces my soul in that moment, and I let out a cry of surprise as I turn toward the wall.

"I gotta say, I never expected to see you back in this God-forsaken hole."

I feel my fingers wrap about a metal pipe. A bar. I'm sitting in a cage. I lay my head against the corner of the cell and stare at the back of my eyelids. The light is too powerful. I have to adjust before I can see.

"Mr. Bulba doesn't like open ends, Miss Mallard."

"Can't say I much appreciate it either."

A soft chuckle. "No. I don't suppose you do. It must really eat at you every day, this hole in the pit of your heart." Metal scrapes against concrete. He's pulling up a chair. I don't try to look, but I hear him sit just outside the cage, so close that he could reach out and touch me if he so desired. "You do surprise me, though. You surprise me very much."

"Glad I can help."

"What are you doing in St. Canard?"

"Wish I knew."

"You're pretty talkative for some reason."

I pull my legs to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees. "Maybe."

He lets out a soft chuckle. "You seem perturbed, Gosalyn. I expected a bit more enthusiasm coming from the pistol who grew up in the shadow of the Midnight Mallard."

I slowly peer up at the man on the other side of the bars. I don't recognize him. He's slender, lanky even. A scraggily lion with a lopsided and gentle smile. Totally out of place.

"Enthusiasm? Yeah… I walked into Bulba's office with my tits practically hanging out, and then he catches me with my pants down… literally. I think I've about reached my low point." I crouched down in the corner of the little cage and wrapped my arms around bony knees. "This pistol isn't exactly loaded, is it?"

"At least you aren't firing blanks." I look at him, but he quickly changes the subject. "Did you even have a plan?"

"Eh… I don't know."

The lion offers a sympathetic smile.

"Who are you? Why the interest in me?"

"Frankly, to me you are the most interesting person alive."

I continue to stare at him. He takes it as an invitation. Scooting forward, toward the bars, he leans in and smiles. "You knew Darkwing Duck. You might say I knew him a bit as well."

"Well congratulations," I mutter, looking away. "Not that it means anything."

"No, I suppose not."

"What about you?" I ask suddenly, turning my eyes back on him. "You don't exactly strike me as criminal underworld material."

The old cat chuckles. "Nah. I guess not. I used to run security in this joint before I was unofficially retired by Mr. Bulba. He thought it would be best to move his own men into the front office."

"So you _aren't_ criminal underworld material," I interject, my voice rising a little with renewed hope. It fails almost immediately with the dejected shrug of his shoulders.

"Don't get your hopes up, kid," he says. "I'm still on the payroll. How else you think I could have gotten in here?"

I'm staring at my feet. "Yeah? And what exactly did you expect to accomplish? This is a waste of time for both of us."

"On the contrary." He smiled soberly. "I believe a talk would be mutually beneficial."

"Is that so?"

"Why of course."

"You'll find I don't have much to talk about."

The gangly lion cocks his head slightly, and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and chin resting on interlocking fingers. He seems to be studying me, perhaps considering his next move the way a master chess player scrutinizes the board before making his move. There is something in his dark eyes, something sincere, something thoughtful. It reminds me of someone I used to know, someone else who was close to my father. The laidback drawl might even be disarming if not for my current predicament.

"Anyone else know you're in town, Miss Mallard?"

Though his tone and posture hasn't changed in the slightest, the alarm screaming in the back of my head is all too clear.

This is the type of question an interrogator would use in order to squeeze a confession out of a suspect. My guard is up and I am more certain than ever that it would be a mistake to talk to this man. I fight against the flood of rage whispering darkly in the back of my mind. I turn my head so I can't see him and stare off into nothingness with gritted teeth.

I just want to punch something. Preferably his stupid face.

"Nah. Of course not. You're far too clever to go announcing your presence in the city. Too much of the hate your father imprisoned has been released since he went away. You know better. Nobody knows you're here."

My fist slowly relaxes its grip on one of the bars of my cage. I didn't even realize I'd grabbed it. My fingers ache from the pressure; just how long had I been squeezing the damn thing?

"Hell, child, you barely even know you're here, yourself."

And with that, the old scraggily lion puts his hands to his knees and slowly pushes himself up out of the chair. He stands tall over my cell for a time—Bulba obviously didn't want me comfortable enough that I could get up and walk around while I was his captive—and finally plants his fists on his hips.

"Just so you know, my name is Charles Devareaux. Don't you forget it."

No, I don't suppose I will.

* 2 *

I must have drifted into and out of sleep a dozen times over the course of the next few hours. I know it was a fitful, restless sleep. I feel as if I must be dreaming.

The known world blurs with the impossible. It's a garbled realm without time, without plausibility. Familiar faces blend together in a hodgepodge of insanity. Amidst the maniacal nightmare I see familiar eyes, gazing upon me with disdain.

When at last that uneasy sleep fades away and my body forces itself awake, I push myself up into a seated position. It's still cramped in this cage. My body aches from lack of use.

I'm quite certain I'd been drugged. Taurus Bulba's no fool. It's clear he remembers me and my so-called spirit. I should have made certain to cover my tracks. This kind of mistake…

The image of my father's face, concealed by his mask and his familiar, wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, brings feelings of isolation, of regret. So often I thought, after the fact, that the duck in the mask was not the father who left me behind. The mask, the cape and hat, the ego. They were nothing but a disguise. My true father, Drake Mallard, the caretaker of our home and the man who tucked me into bed at night… he was the one who left me behind. Because it was just something he had to do, for the sake of everyone.

As if his daughter never mattered.

His _adopted_ daughter.

I quickly realize my brain is just scampering about, searching for excuses, laying blame at the feet of the dead. Does that make me an ingrate? I guess it does. The truth is Dad may have left before his time, may have left me alone and facing an uncertain future with no real path to follow, but he did leave behind something no one ever could: he left me with a desire to find myself, to make myself more than what I had been.

It's a difficult journey, a path I wouldn't wish upon anyone else.

This is my journey. My path. It belongs to me and me alone.

I put a hand to my throbbing temple. Some kind of splitting headache, something else I would wish upon even my worst enemy.

Okay, that's a lie. I'd just love to slam a two by four upside Taurus Bulba's fat, ugly head right now. See just how far his stupid brain would splatter. Only if.

I lean back against the metal bars, stretching my long legs out as far as I can, and find that I if I press my feet flat against the far side of the cage, I can just about lock my knees as if I were standing tall. The bars rub painfully into my back as I stretch, but there's not much I can do about that. The hard, metal floor is bad as it is, and the pain of the bars against my spine are a small price to pay to simply be able to move my aching muscles about, if even just a little.

* 3 *

Sometime later one of Bulba's henchmen enters the room. My eyes, which had adjusted to the near-pitch black of the room are again blinded by a painfully bright beam of light. I'm pretty sure it's intentional. Bulba doesn't want me to have the opportunity to get the drop on any of his goons when they come to do… whatever it is their big bad boss has ordered them to do.

I tense as the footsteps get closer. I'm eager to pounce, to regain my freedom, but I'm hardly in a position to strike.

Heavy breathing accompanies the footfalls. Whoever the bastard is looming over me, he's taking a moment to scrutinize my undignified position.

"Don't know why the bossman has it in for you, babe," he says in a smooth voice. He sounds young. His voice oozes with pleasure as he leans closer. My eyes are starting to adjust; he's a big, tall kid with broad shoulders, powerfully built with very little body fat. "Guess it don't matter." He fiddles with something he pulls out from within his suit jacket. There's a familiar, soft click and I see a glint of steel as he aims a weapon at me.

The shot is nearly silent, like a gentle just a breath of air. Something sticks into my neck.

A swat at it like I would a pesky fly, and I find it there, nestled within my feathers.

A tiny dart. More like a needle really, not even an inch in length. Too late, I rip the dart free. The poison's already worked itself into my bloodstream. Of course it would have been impossible to avoid. Here I lie in a cramped cage, easy pickings for Bulba's pathetic goons.

If these guys are pathetic, just what does that make me?

I feel myself weighed down by the poison coursing through my veins. I try to lift my arm as I see through heavy, drooping lids as the youthful henchman leans toward the bars. With a key he unlocks the heavy padlock and swings the door open. Then he sets a plate of… something in my cage. I gaze at it. Momentarily the vision of Bulba's cook leaning over the meal with a dropper, adding an ounce of poison to the mixture…

Of course, that is a fear completely fabricated by paranoia. Bulba already has me cornered. He probably knows I am much more valuable to him alive. If I was dead why lock me up to begin with? There'd been ample time to slaughter me when he had me cornered in his office with my pants around my knees.

"Stuff'll wear off in a couple minutes. Eat up. Gonna be a busy night."

He rises, and then steps away. He stuffs a hand in his pocket as he turns, nearly stumbling over the chair where the old lion had sat earlier during our brief conversation. What was his name again? Charles Devareaux.

The henchman grumbles a curse under his breath and slides the chair back and out of his path. Then he saunters easily to the door. My eyes are still heavy, but I can still see as he pushes the door open and shuts off the light.

He vacates without a goodbye. Somehow I find that comforting.

The door shuts behind him, and all is dark again.

Or mostly dark. Soon, just as he promised, the feeling returns to me and I am able to push myself back into a seated position. It's almost like a weak shot of adrenaline kick starting my heart so that I'd have some much-needed energy. I touch the plate. It's Styrofoam, and the fork itself is cheap plastic. Nothing to drink.

I know that I need my energy if I'm to even have a chance at reversing my fortunes. I've already determined that Bulba wants me alive, so it's very unlikely my food is poisoned. And if it is, what the hell. I deserve my fate for being stupid enough to fall into his clutches to begin with. The only way out is to rebuild my strength.

I take a bite. It's still warm, and surprisingly good. Some sort of a goulash over white rice. Not bad at all.

As I eat I catch sight of a small red light. It winks off the moment I see it across the room. I hadn't seen anything like it before now, but it's there and it's obvious. Having vision accustomed to the dark makes it very easy to spot.

I focus on that spot, and after three or four seconds, the light returns. I count the seconds: one, two, three…

And off again.

One, two, three…

The light winks on. Three second intervals to be sure. But what exactly is that light? I'm focused now. I quickly bolt the rest of my meal, slip the empty plate through the bars and onto the floor, silently thanking Bulba for supplying me with the much-needed source of fuel.

All the while I continue to watch that small, red dot as it winks on and off. Something is up. What could all this possibly mean? What the hell am I missing? Think, Goz… Think!

But I can't think, because all of a sudden, my head is swimming in drowsiness. Again. My unseeing eyes drift lazily to the plate. My head wants to panic but my body has reverted to a sudden stupor and refuses to respond. Have I underestimated Bulba's cruelty? What sort of sick, twisted game is he playing?

I blink a few times. My whole body slouches back, leaning heavily into the bars behind me. I know it should ache but my brain doesn't care to recognize the pain anymore. So very tired. So… defeated.

There is a soft compression in the air, like a pulse of sudden power that makes every joint in my body ache. It is a different sort of pain then that of the familiar ache of unused muscles. I've never quite felt anything like this.

I can't count the seconds. My body doesn't even budge. Somehow I realize something is about to happen but I just can't pinpoint the significance of the ordeal.

There is a crash. The door flies open, but this time there is no light on the other side. I can't even convince myself that I'm supposed to care. All I know is a deep, sinking numbness as my world sinks into oblivion.

* 4 *

I'm lying on my back, but this time the ground is so soft, as if I'm lying in the heavens, on top of the clouds, well beyond the reach of the troubles that have plagued me for so long. There is a gentle warmth and the appealing scent of the fresh linen. If even for a moment, I'm grateful for the illusion of happiness.

The room is bare save for light furnishings. A nightstand at my bedside. The small dresser across the room. It's hard to tell but I think the walls are a light blue. The ceiling is so high the light can't quite reach it, lending to the feeling of endlessness as I peer to the heavens. There is still darkness, but this time a dim light blankets the room in a pleasant ambiance, lending to the distinct feeling of safety that I dare not trust even as I peer about the room.

I don't recognize this place. I don't recognize anything.

I know it is time to make my move. It takes a moment of concentration, but at last I push myself up. The heavy, warm comforter slips from my shoulders.

I put my bare feet to the floor and sink into the softest, warmest shag carpet I have ever had the pleasure of standing upon. I sigh happily, if only for an instant of gratification, and ease my weary body out of bed.

I'm wearing a soft, pink nightgown made of fine silk. Well, doesn't this just get better and better? Who the heck changed me, anyway? For that matter, had I even been wearing clothes while I was lying in that cage back in the Javelin (assuming, of course, I had been in the Javelin after Taurus Bulba caught me in the act). I don't remember much more than being in the most awkward, uncomfortable position in my young life. I guess I might as well have been naked.

I check for a change of clothing but there's nothing in the dresser. I take a moment to gather my wits about me before I push open the door and step out into the hall. It surprises me a little that I'm free to roam about, even if I don't know where the hell I am. Is there even anywhere to go?

The hall is dark. The weak light coming from behind me reveals several doors. To the far right there is a sequence of flashing lights. The pattern reflecting off the walls seems to be that of a television screen or computer monitor. The hall opens up into a larger room. I move slowly, one hand against the wall. I'm still a little weary, and my legs a little weak. I haven't quite shaken the effects of the poison.

The room is not as large as I'd thought. As I step out of the hall and into that room, a motion sensor reacts to my presence and the room is flooded with a blinding light. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the fluorescent bulbs overhead, but when they do I stop in my tracks.

Most of the walls are bare, and the carpeting has become ice-cold linoleum. What gives me pause is the collection of monitors positioned against the far wall. Though I've never seen this particular setup, everything about this strange room feels familiar.

I draw a slow breath, and then I move forward, my eyes searching every screen.

The flood of information is telling. As my mind begins to process the flood of information I feel my heart quickening in my breast. "My God," I murmur. I put my hand to the back of the leather chair. It's empty, and the seat cool.

Behind me, something changes. A gentle hissing sound. Warning bells go off in my head. I spin about, just in time to see a panel in the ceiling dropping to the floor, blocking the path back into the hall.

I stare into the eyes of young woman… a girl really, probably a few years younger than myself. A bear with soft blonde fur. She smiles. "There you are. When you weren't in your room, I knew I'd find you here."

I watch as the girl slides past me to the monitors. There's nothing I can think to say. Even the most obvious questions slip my mind as I watch her. I can't shake this feeling lurking just beneath the surface.

The girl plops down into the empty chair and spins about to face the monitors. She reaches out and rests a finger on one of the buttons. She turns a dial with her free hand before toggling the switch. "This is Bird's Nest calling Raven. The chick has hatched."

My mind snaps into action. Almost without conscious thought I'm translating the girl's words. Bird's Nest? That's an obvious code for home base.

The chick has hatched? Something has changed. Something expected. I get it all too well. I just woke up. I'm the so-called "chick"… great.

What about Raven? Well, that's obvious enough. At least I think it is.

"_Where is she now?_" a deep, velvet voice flows easily through the speakers.

"She's right here with me. I'm about to offer her some breakfast if you care to join us."

There's a long pause. "_Take care of her, Molly. I'll be in touch._"

The connection ends and we're left in silence.

"Well… that was… brief," I say slowly.

Molly giggles from her seat. "That's Raven. A man of few words to say the least." She swivels back around and peers up to me from the chair. She is still smiling. Her soft brown eyes sparkle. She's at least a few years older than I was when Dad died, but she's still just a kid. "Well, I suppose I should introduce myself."

I narrow my eyes. "The thought had occurred to me."

She giggles. "Molly Cunningham. I'm a junior at St. Canard Metropolitan University."

_Junior?_ As I try to process just what that means she's bouncing up out of the chair. She takes me easily by the arm. "Come on. LP's making French toast."

The wall slides open, lifting up into the ceiling as we approach. Or, rather, as she drags me across the room. We are back in the hall. The warm carpeting is a pleasant reprieve for the cool linoleum I'd been standing on a minute age. I glance back as she continues to lead me down the hall, just as the wall slides back into place.

The mystery behind that wall at the end of hall is simple enough to grasp: it's not supposed to be there. That's not at all a mystery to me because I can grasp the nature of the crazy world I've awoken to. This is a world I've seen before. It's not the same familiar world I left behind after Dad's final battle, but it's certainly something I can relate to. Who exactly is this girl? More importantly, what exactly is her interest in me?

And who is this stranger who calls himself Raven?

We step through a door at the other end of the long hall, and I am greeted with much more pleasant lighting than that of the fluorescent overhead lights from the mystery room. It's a simple living room, with simple furnishings. Simple, but nice. The floor is covered with the same, soft shag carpeting from the hall and the room where I'd woken up. There's a big, tan couch and a matching recliner, and a coffee table at the center of the room. The distinct lack of a television set is the only real mystery in this living room. Who doesn't have a TV in the living room in this day and age? Wonders abound.

The décor makes perfect use of what little space there actually is. Two words come to mind: tidy and comfortable.

The sweet smell of maple and cinnamon draws me to a room beyond.

Molly gives my arm a tug. "Come on, Goz. He's waiting to see you."

"He? Just how do you…"

She ignores me, pulling me past the small living room and through the door on the other side. "Hey LP! She's awake! Breakfast smells awesome!"

"Oh. Thanks Molly. I'm glad you think so."

My heart leaps into my throat. That familiar voice seems to staple my webbed feet to the floor, and they refuse to budge as I stare into the small kitchen, to the big duck sitting in a wheelchair across the room. He's holding a spatula and leaning over a specialized oven range designed for the handicapped.

An image flashes in my mind.

_An old friend looming desperately over the controls of the Thunderquack, a custom fighter jet designed in my father's honor. One terrific final crash, one catastrophic blaze of glory. Flames arc skyward, stretching to the heavens, as if offering one final plea for a hero's salvation_.

"Good morning Gosalyn," he says pleasantly, turning in his chair to face me for the first time. His relaxed tone flows easily through the tension in the air, as if we had never parted ways. As if we had never said goodbye.

The spark of excitement in his eyes and the large grin spreading across his bill tell a different tale.

My vision blurs and my knees go weak as I stare at him, and then I let myself go.

A return to the past. A moment of weakness I had once sworn I would never face again.

"Launchpad!"

I bolt across the room as quickly as my two legs will carry me, and I fall to my knees and melt away into a mess of tears in his arms.

"I missed you too, little girl," he says as his warm hand gently strokes my hair.

* 5 *

The last time I saw Launchpad McQuack I'd been twelve years old. In fact, I'd thought I was seeing the last precious few seconds of his life. I'd snuck aboard the Thunderquack for a very good reason: Dad was in terrible danger, and I was the only one who could warn him. I was the only one he could trust. Because he'd been betrayed.

I just didn't know who.

My gut instinct was that I should have trusted Launchpad. He was someone I could always trust, for whatever reason. But I couldn't find it in myself. Not that last time. I had to get to Dad on my own. It was my only choice. _The_ only choice.

But Launchpad found me. I guess there was no hiding from him in his own jet. Shame on me for thinking he wouldn't know. He wasn't always the sharpest tool in the shed, but he'd always known the Thunderquack inside and out. He should… he'd designed the damned thing.

Had I just taken the time to explain everything from the beginning, just maybe we could have figured out some way to get to Darkwing before F.O.W.L. could unleash their hellish weapon upon St. Canard.

But I was an idiot. Dad died. At least his pain was over beyond that point… but it was only the beginning of Launchpad's suffering.

"French toast is awesome, LP!"

We are shaken from an uncomfortable silence by the nauseating excitement of Molly Cunningham. Maybe that's for the best. Molly is an excitable girl. Maybe we should take our cues from her right now. This is a reunion, and despite the pain of how it all ended, I know Launchpad would never hold it against me. That's just not the kind of man he is.

"She's right," I say suddenly, smiling over at him. "Thanks for breakfast, Launchpad."

"Shucks," he replies with a smile. "It's nothing, really."

I smile, but I avert my gaze as a blush creeps across my cheeks. I can't express in words how good it is to see him again. So good, in fact, that it overshadows the deep guilt I feel at the pit of my soul when I look at him, when I even think about him. I have to admit, it had been a long time since I'd thought of my old friend… Dad's trusted sidekick.

"Goz?"

I glance up to him again, and this time I realize I'm near tears again. I blink them away and force myself back to the present. My eyes dart between the unlikely pair: an adolescent blonde bear and an aging crippled pilot. I guess it doesn't really surprise me given my experience with Launchpad's relationships. He hangs in some very bizarre circles.

"It's nothing, Launchpad. Just… thinking."

He nods. "I guess it's a lot to take in, huh?"

I grunt softly at that, shaking my head as I run my last bite of French toast through a small pool of maple syrup. "You can say that again."

"You want some more?"

"Uh… sure."

To my surprise, it's Molly who jumps up, as if bidden to the task. Launchpad looks mortified when she quickly scoops up his empty plate along with mine.

"What are you doing?"

"I got this, LP," she says with that same bounce in her step as she always seems to have. Either she is seriously a morning person or she has Slinky in her DNA. "You've got a guest to entertain, remember?"

"I thought I _was_ entertaining her."

I roll my eyes as he winks at me, but I find it impossible to wipe the smirk off my bill. Molly heads for the stove and slops a more few slices of bread through the egg mixture.

"That girl. She never lets me do anything."

"You made the first batch," she scolds. "I got this."

"Wow," I say quietly as I observe the bizarre scenario unfold before my eyes. "You two sound like an old married couple."

"Woah now," Launchpad said with a laugh, holding his hands up as if he's defending himself from an accusation. "Let's not start any rumors. Becky would tan my hide if she caught anyone even joking about that."

"Becky?" I arch a brow as I study him. Could it be good ole LP has a girl after all?

"My mom," Molly says nonchalantly as she sprinkles something over the top of the uncooked side of the French toast.

"Which begs the question," I say as I fold my arms over the tabletop and lean forward, "exactly where is she and why are you staying at a bachelor pad in the dreariest city on the entire eastern seaboard?"

Molly glances over her shoulder. "Yeah. Isn't _that_ the question of the decade."

"Molly's a student at St. Canard Metropolitan University," Launchpad quickly interjects.

"So I've heard." Of course I'm not buying it. I've seen a bit too much of this house to accept that response. "But what is she doing living with you? She's a fraction of your age."

"I think that's enough questions for now," Molly says as she checks the bottom side of one of the slices of bread. "This is breakfast, not the Spanish Inquisition."

She's right of course. That doesn't mean I don't plan on taking up the interrogation later, but I think I can spare Launchpad for the time being.

I smile thoughtfully at the old pilot.

"It's good to see you again, Launchpad."

"Ditto that, Goz," he replies with a twinkle in his eye.

* * *

**NEXT EPISODE: ****AGENTS OF S.H.U.S.H.**


	3. Agents of SHUSH

**AGENTS OF S.H.U.S.H.**

* * *

* 1 *

"So, Goz, I think it's high time we had ourselves a little chitchat."

I glance back over my shoulder as Launchpad enters the room, preceded by the soft hum of his electric wheelchair. He's just shown Molly out the door. She's on her way to a day of classes, meaning it's just him and me and whatever boundaries might still stand between us.

"You think so, too, huh?"

I rise, holding up the morning newspaper.

Thick bold print is splashed across the front page. "Heartache in St. Canard Plaza." Launchpad lowers his head in sorrow before turning his gaze back to mine. I smile sadly as I lay the paper back down on the coffee table.

"It's been a long seven years," he says quietly after a lingering silence.

I fold my arms over my chest and shudder at the memory of seeing the aftermath of the attack on Grizzlikof's television the day before. "You can say that again."

"Goz, you went to face Taurus Bulba. He knows you're in St. Canard." Launchpad maneuvers around the couch, rolling his wheelchair close to me. He gazes up as he speaks. "I don't know all the details, but it's safe to say he has a pretty good idea who you are."

"I'd say that's a pretty definite maybe."

"I see. So, what do you plan to do?"

"Well, I guess you could say I have it all figured out." I turn away and flop down onto the couch. My whole body sinks into the soft cushions, reminding me of the weight of my despair, slowly crushing my soul. "All of it except that part."

Launchpad nods slowly. "I know, Goz. I get it. It's gotta be real hard, coming back to face the past. But that's exactly what we do in the hero business." I glance up to him. The hero business? "It's what your dad would do." He reaches out and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, his voice solemn as he continues. "We face the harsh realities head-on and shine a light into the dark places of the world so the innocent might find their way to a better tomorrow."

Wait a second. That's decidedly_not_ Launchpad.

He seems to recognize my skepticism and laughs with a shrug. "An old friend told me that once a long time ago. Seemed to fit the moment."

"An old friend?"

But Launchpad is moving away, steering his wheelchair around the coffee table and heading down toward the hall. "Come on, Gosalyn. There's something I think you should see."

I hesitate for a moment, considering his response. This was unexpected. I'd thought a chitchat might be sitting down and catching up on old times. Something about this, though… it just doesn't sit right. Of course I go anyway. I trust Launchpad, I really do. It's just that things are a lot different now. They changed way back then, during that final mission.

He guides me to the end of the hall and back into the mystery room. It amazes me how smoothly his wheelchair glides over the shag carpet, but I don't comment. Other things take a higher priority.

"You know, I just can't get over how familiar this all feels," I mutter, tongue firmly planted in cheek as I peer to Launchpad out of the corner of my eye.

He chuckles. "I guess I have an eye for the décor."

It's curious to see that Launchpad's ability to spout bullshit has grown exponentially over the years. There was a time when getting the truth out of Darkwing Duck's sidekick would have been as easy as a pleasant tone and a bat of my eyelashes. A bit of trickery or outright prodding would have each had their appeal way back then, but it's quite clear he's changed in a lot of little ways. I can't shake the feeling that just maybe I know exactly why he's behaving this way.

Launchpad rolls over to a terminal in the wall I hadn't seen during my first visit. "The captain has turned on the 'Fasten Seatbelt' sign. Please return your seatback and tray tables to their full, upright, and locked position." He reaches out to press a control, and with that, the whole room shifts beneath me. I stumble briefly but catch myself by putting my hand on the back of Launchpad's wheelchair.

I stare ahead as the walls to either side of the computer suddenly falls away into shadow, revealing yet another room beyond the mystery room. Then, with a groan of effort, the motion of the room grinds to a crawl. I regain my footing when the room at last is still.

"This way." Without a moment's hesitation, Launchpad rolls onward, descending into the shadows. I swallow before starting after him. I step down the ramp and into the darker room. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do, my heart skips a beat.

"Launchpad… What is this place?"

"I guess you could call it a shrine. A memento to the past."

I am standing in a large garage, surrounded by a few very familiar odds and ends. It makes sense that he would have these things. After all, when Dad died and I left, the house would have fallen to him to care for. S.H.U.S.H. apparently hadn't raided my home in the aftermath. They hadn't taken everything the same as they had taken everything from Darkwing Tower back at the Audubon Bay Bridge.

Each and every item is a relic of Dad's underground lair built beneath the house he bought not long after he had first defeated Taurus Bulba. Within the month he would approach the orphanage about adopting me, and from that day forth we would be a family, just Dad and me, and, of course, Launchpad McQuack.

My fingers gently roll over the smooth leather of the Ratcatcher's seat, the black strap wrapped about the handlebars, the smooth bill-shaped fender.

The sidecar has been separated from the bike.

"Bring back memories, kiddo?"

I brush a tear from my cheek. "You could say that."

Launchpad smiles as he wheels his chair past me through the collection of Darkwing Duck-related relics to the far corner of the room. He reaches up and throws back the sheet draped over the top of a large, tube-shaped object.

A light within the tube flickers on to reveal Dad's old outfit.

My heart skips a beat.

The suit's been fully restored. The scorched and torn fabric has been properly cared for. There is no blood.

I step back as a vision pops into my head.

_My father, Darkwing Duck, lies broken, blood oozing from various ugly, jagged tears in his flesh. The purple and grey and black of his uniform is dark and sopping in scarlet life. His bill parts slightly as he rasps my name._

"Gosalyn…"

So feint, nearly impossible to hear. Heartbreaking.

Launchpad touches my arm. "Goz?" he repeats gently.

I shake that scene from the rooftop of the unfinished Javelin from my mind and turn away. I wrap my arms around myself, shuddering from a chill, even though it's not at all cold.

"You gonna be okay?"

"Okay?" I grunt. "Launchpad, things haven't been okay for seven years. Things will never be okay again."

He smiles sadly. "I know it might not seem like it right now, Goz, but things are going to get better in St. Canard."

He lifts a metallic case that has been sitting in his lap. I'm not sure where he got it from but I know instantly what awaits me from within. Slowly I reach out, punching the release code.

_Close your eyes little girl blue. Inside of you lies a rainbow. Yellow, blue, red, blue, purple two, blue purple and green then the yellow._

I smile at the thought. "Clever, Dad," I mutter softly to myself.

"What was that, Goz?"

"Nothing Launchpad," I say quietly as I lift the lid.

I reach in and wrap my fingers slowly about the grip of Dad's gas gun.

"So? What next?"

It feels good. It unnerves me how good it feels. How comfortably it sets in my hand.

"Goz?"

As if I just realized I was holding a hot coal I drop the gas gun back into the case. "I… I need some time."

Then, without a word, without even waiting to hear whatever he might have to say, I flee the scene.

* 2 *

Time? Did I seriously say that? I need time? I've had seven long years to think about this. So what the heck is wrong with me? It's either yes, or no. Anything in between is nothing more than indecision. Darkwing Duck never would have given it a second thought… and maybe that's part of the problem. Dad had no reservations about the work he was doing.

What about Gosalyn Mallard? Well, for starters it seems I have reservations galore. Reservations, low self-esteem, indecisiveness, maybe even a touch of fear…

Pretty much the opposite of the girl I was just seven years ago. I'm certainly not the me I remember from my youth. Back then, before Dad died, I would have jumped at the chance help Darkwing Duck change the world, one purse snatcher at a time. On a few occasions I actually did.

The name Quiverwing Quack ring a bell?

Moi. You know it. And Quiverwing was just one of my aliases.

I used to think I had a gift. Maybe it was in the spirit that Grandpa used to see in me, the same spirit that Dad saw too, and somehow brought us together… though it often seemed the entire universe stood in our way.

All the spirit in the world couldn't save Dad from his fate.

Do I have it in me to take up the mantle in his stead? Does Gosalyn Mallard, seven years removed from that heartbreaking tragedy, have the guts to stand against the nasty criminal element that rose up in the aftermath? Can I truly become Darkwing Duck? That is, after all, the choice he left with me as he slipped into oblivion in my arms. I was his precious gift, his legacy. If I wanted to take up the mantle and lead St. Canard out of the darkness, that was my right, my destiny if I wanted it. He wanted me to have that option.

And I could have it, so long as the truth remained hidden beneath the mask.

* 3 *

Midmorning in St. Canard Plaza. A quick inspection of the scenery reveals nothing of particular interest. The people continue about their miserable, day-to-day lives as usual. The world is downright tense. I recall having seen it this way once before, in my youth.

That was the day I would meet Darkwarrior Duck. My father in another time… another life. He wasn't Dad though. Time had been tough for that other version of Drake Mallard to say the least, and all the people suffered his wrath.

As my eyes scan the plaza, I realize that the people before me live a very similar life. They move quickly, with an urgency in their step that reveals more about their present location than their intended destination. Of course, they know what happened here in the early morning hours just yesterday: unleashing a volley of hot lead, unknown terrorists had used the blood of the innocent to paint red the streets and sidewalks.

I can't help but shudder as I peer about, taking in the familiar scenery. I've been here before, and to be honest nothing much has changed in the seven years since my last visit. The buildings surrounding the plaza are mostly too tall to see beyond, though if you look to the west you can see the Javelin stretching toward the heavens. That's different, isn't it? I know the last time I was here the building was mostly built, but I don't think you could see the pinnacle of the tower yet. If so I didn't see it. I might have been distracted by something else.

Knowing my history that's pretty much a certainty. Having grown up a little makes me realize just how much I must have missed back then. I'm pretty sure I was always missing something. I had my own brand of tunnel vision just like every kid, but the other kids didn't have Darkwing Duck as a father. The truth is Dad was right; I should have slowed down. I should have let myself be a normal kid. Hindsight is twenty/twenty, as the saying goes.

As I watch the waves of crowds moving along the sidewalks and the occasional passing car from a bus stop on a street corner, I begin to notice a shift in the flow of traffic. Men in suits slip through the crowd, somehow very discreet yet totally obvious at the same time. No one else seems to notice. Probably a bit of those superhero genes I inherited from Dad.

"Yeah, right, Goz," I remind myself. "You're adopted, remember?"

Then again, Grandpa was a scientist. Maybe he would have noticed it too.

I stay in my spot and continue to watch. My mind is hard at work evaluating the situation at hand. Discreet, meaning they are professional and therefore pretty darn good at what they do. Probably not cops. Cops tend to want to be seen, assuming they're not undercover. It helps them keep the peace as a deterrent more than anything.

As professional as they are, they are also far too obvious to be Bulba's men, or anyone tied to the criminal underworld. The bad guys damn sure don't want to be seen. It might be an inconvenience for investigators of a crime scene, but by making it clear they mean business they are more likely to steer wandering eyes away from their cause.

I'm pretty sure I've pegged exactly who they are by the time I'm joined on the bench by a lady in black. She's about my age, a slender and tall bear with fur the same dark shade as her father's.

"Sabrina… what–"

"Just waiting for the bus," she says quietly. There's a small smile on her face.

I take in the sight of her. She looks very different from the girl I'd left behind at the Javelin two nights ago. The very feminine and soft Sabrina in a dainty, blue nightgown had been replaced by a voluptuous biker babe in skintight black leather. Her soft brown eyes are covered by sleek, black shades, and her waves of auburn hair are combed back flat and tied in a together in a flawless French braid and pinned in a tight curl up and off her shoulders.

I smirk back. "Is that so? Me too."

"Now how's that for a coincidence."

Of course, we're both full of shit. We both know it.

She's obviously here to get me. I can tell by the air of confidence with which she approached. I hadn't needed a disguise. I'm not exactly afraid of being tracked down by Bulba's men in broad daylight, but no one else who might react to such extremes knows I'm here. Sabrina is an enigma. Regardless, I can tell by just a glance that this particular meeting is no mere coincidence. She's out to find me.

I glance at the men shifting in and out of the crowds. The investigators.

"You're with them."

"Who?" she asks, a brow arching behind her shades. It's obvious bullshit. She acts like they aren't there. I'm supposed to play along.

"Oh, nobody," I say, with barely a moment's hesitation.

She smiles and nods and we fall silent, watching the crowds as if there was nothing to watch at all. All the while I've got one eye on her and another on the suits who by now are most certainly circling a particular area of interest related to the scene of yesterday'

A bus finally turns the corner and approaches.

"Ah! There's our ride," she says as she hops up. I follow along without saying a word, despite the tornado of questions ripping through my thoughts.

Hmmm… "Nobody on the bus," I point out. I hint with my tone that I've figured out a lot more than I let on. "Just the driver."

"Yep," she comments as we step aboard. She flashes some type of a card at the driver as we pass by. The big hound offers a nod and shuts the door behind us.

"Grizzlikof. Miss Mallard," he greets us with a little tip of his navy blue cap. He's a sharply dressed pooch in a very nice, smartly pressed uniform. The cap proudly displays a public transportation shield. It's disconcerting that he knows me by name, but the truth is I should have expected him to considering the nature of the situation. He thrusts a thumb over his shoulder. "Seat's in the eighth row."

"Thanks Paschall."

Sabrina leads me down the rows of seats, guiding me directly to the row number he'd indicated. Paschall is already pulling into traffic before we reach our seat. Before she sits Sabrina pushes the seventh row seat in front of us forward, revealing a hidden panel in the floorboard.

"Shit's about to get real now, huh?" I whisper as I lean back, shaking my head.

"Guess you could say that."

Four blocks later we pull in behind a lull in traffic. A lull we might otherwise have easily avoided. It's clear Paschall didn't want to avoid it. He peers back to us through the massive rearview mirror over his seat. "Your stop, ladies. Good luck!"

Sabrina Grizzlikof flashes him a big thumbs up. "Thanks for the ride, hon!" she swoons, and then kicks the floorboard open. "After you, Goz."

"Yep. Shit just got real."

I let myself drop into the darkness, where a section in the street below has opened up to reveal a hidden tunnel.

I drop, half expecting a violent jolt when my feet hit the ground and the weight of my entire body following. It never happens. There is a light impact and suddenly I'm barreling through the darkness on a massive tube slide. Despite myself I let out a shrill whoop. This is actually kinda fun.

The ride comes to an abrupt end when I am suddenly dropped into a pit filled with what seems to be packing peanuts. I sink down several feet, and when I finally get my bearings, I am able to work my way up. I peer about into a brightly lit room. It's not big… just a few tables and computer terminals, all of which are manned by men and women in suits. One wall is nearly filled with monitors displaying real-time video of the streets above, including several shots of the St. Canard Plaza.

A quick inspection of the video tells me two things: this is a fine-tuned, well-equipped group of people (which helps to confirm one of my previous suspicions regarding Sabrina), and the fact that this particular room only deals with a small portion of St. Canard. They probably have other similar underground rooms sprinkled throughout the city.

"She ready to fly, boys?" Sabrina asks as she emerges from the pit behind me and walks quickly through the small group.

"Ready and waiting, Agent Grizzlikof," a stout toad confirms as she walks past. He hands her a helmet, and then distributes one to me as I follow after her.

"Uh, fly?"

"Not what you're thinkin' Goz. We're just going for a little ride."

"Doesn't sound little to me," I mutter.

We approach what seems to be a wall of solid rock, but when she reaches out to press a metal plate, the rock face begins to shift. With the loud grinding of stone against stone, the wall rises, revealing beyond trio of… I groan.

As a kid this kind of thing would have blown my mind.

"Rollercoaster cars? Are you kidding me?"

"Please keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times, Miss Mallard," the toad says as he locks his arms behind his back. His face is a mask of stone, making it difficult to tell if he's mocking me. I climb into the middle car beside Sabrina. We're followed by a young duck in a soldier's uniform and wearing a similar helmet to the one we'd been supplied with. Though he's not as tall as me, which makes him pretty short for a guy, he has broad, powerful shoulders. His face set in grim determination. He quickly salutes Sabrina before lowering the bar over us until it snaps into place, repeating the toad's order for us to keep our hands inside the vehicle. I can tell instantly that he's not joking, but I'm still not sure about the blasted amphibian.

"This is going to be a long ride, isn't it?" I ask Sabrina as our escort loads himself into the front car, pulling the bar down until it clicks into position over him.

"Only a few minutes. Honestly we don't have that far to go."

"Not that I'm not _ecstatic _to hear you say that, but I think I might need to go pee before we hit the road."

Sabrina laughs. "Not happening," she says, just as the rollercoaster begins to roll forward. We're already beginning a shallow incline and picking up speed as we move away from the light of the secret underground room. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

"Hard to do when you're holding your bladder," I grumble.

The incline steepens, and we're off like a shot into the darkness.

* 4 *

I remember saying something once upon a time about paying money for rides just like this when I was a kid. Yes, I really used to be that young, which is freaking weird to say considering I'm not even twenty years old. But then you gotta remember, I was probably ten or so when I said it the first time.

That thing they say about kids growing up too fast? For me it was like being shot through a cannon. Before I'd even reached my twelfth year I'd lost my entire family, been the resident enemy of the orphanage that took me in, been rescued by and saved a crime-fighting superhero all in one foul swoop, adopted by Darkwing Duck himself, and raised to be something more than what I'd always thought I'd grow up to be…

By the time I was thirteen years old I'd been orphaned again, facing a brand new life on the run, all on my own.

Yep, I grew up too darn fast.

We barrel through the darkness in a series of twists and turns, an occasional uphill lull and a few too many up-chuck-able downward spills where the cars go way to fast and my poor, tired brains are slammed into the back of my skull. It's a terrifying feeling to go hurling into the unknown. Ever gone on a rollercoaster ride in near pitch-black? Let's just say that's exactly what I'm experiencing right now.

Luckily I manage to keep my breakfast down and hold in my fluids at the same time. That's me, Darkwing Duck's daughter, Master of Multitasking. Wouldn't do me much good to get to wherever it is we're going after having to sit in my own urine and puke. Especially considering that I'm pretty sure I'm getting ready to meet with someone a tad bit more important than Agent Sabrina Grizzlikof.

And yes, it's incredibly weird for me, who met Sabrina in school when we were both just kids, only twelve years old, to think of her as Agent Grizzlikof.

We were fast friends. It's hard to think of her as anything more than plain ole Sabrina. She was leader of the school's forensics team, one of the three star softball players, and cheerleader extraordinaire. She always tried to act as if she wasn't all there, but I knew better. This girl was her father's daughter in the classroom.

I guess there was even more of her father in her than I could have guessed. I never thought she had it in her to be something like this.

I gotta admit, she looks damn good in that outfit. I'm a bit jealous of her Grade A butt.

The rollercoaster ride is over before I know it. I'd spent the whole trip trying to focus on other things so I didn't even noticed the thing had begun to slow. The moment we grind to a halt the whole floor begins to shift. We're moving again. This time, up. As the cars ascend the ceiling opens up and light floods the tunnel.

I peer about with wide eyes as we arrive in the midst of a vast chamber.

It's not too different from the previous underground room, but it's at least a dozen times larger and probably more. We're surrounded by equipment of all kinds and scores of men and women in uniform. The ceiling stretches high overhead and it's impossible to judge just how far away the walls are in my disoriented state. I'm still trying to take it in as a group of men approach. One lifts the bar to our car up so that Sabrina and I can stretch our legs.

"Good morning, Gosalyn," drawls a very familiar voice. I turn to face the tall, lanky lion just as he reaches me, surrounded by a small team of very official-looking men in business suits.

"_Charles?_" My eyes are wide. I'd had a few surprises so far but I'd managed for the most part to keep a straight face, I think. But this is totally unexpected. The lanky lion has a playful grin on his face. Hardly what I would expect from anyone in this damned organization.

"It's good to see you," he says. "I have to admit, I wasn't entirely sure that you'd accept our little invitation."

I draw a breath, gathering what little remains of my wits about me, and then I smile back. "And I have to admit, I was tempted to tell you to stuff it."

"Welcome to our humble home, Gosalyn." I smirk at that. This is anything but humble. "I suppose it's time for a reintroduction," he adds as he extends a hand.

"No need, Charles Devareaux," I interject, and take his hand. "Agent of S.H.U.S.H."

* 5 *

"You look a tad bit surprised, Gosalyn."

Well of course I'm surprised. There's no dancing around the truth here. The guy had me convinced. He was so grounded into his roll back at the Javelin I never could have guessed his true identity. "It really doesn't matter who you are," I reply slowly as I peer about. "I figured I was being strung along by S.H.U.S.H. agents. Even seeing Sabrina wasn't a total shock considering her father. But you… You're good, Devareaux."

"Shucks." His big, lopsided grin reinforces every bit of the personality that I remember seeing back while I was in that cage. I have to admit it, the guy is not just good. He's flawless. He fits so easily into the role without having to try.

He guides me away from the crowd, holding a hand up so that the others disperse and leave me alone with him, or rather, as alone as possible in a room filled to the brim with Agents of S.H.U.S.H. Even Sabrina has departed, which is a struggle for me considering because I don't really know Devareaux. I've only met him once before and we only spoke for a handful of minutes, and at the time he strongly alluded to himself being sided with the enemy. Which I suppose might even still be the case, considering his ties to S.H.U.S.H.

I still don't trust these people. I still blame them for the hardships I've faced since they took Dad away from me.

"I'm surprised you agreed to meet with us," he says as we approach a series of computers not far from the corner of the massive room. That corner seems to be the only one devoid of the abundance of equipment that fills every inch of the room. "Considering your friend Launchpad doesn't quite see eye-to-eye with this organization."

"Launchpad doesn't know I'm here. And believe me, had it been anyone but Sabrina, I wouldn't be standing here right now." I eye the bulky computer before me for a long moment. It seems out of place when comparing it to the other equipment. It seems more like a hodgepodge IT experiment gone horribly wrong. Kind've like the equipment that Dad used to use in Darkwing Tower years ago.

I frown.

"Son of a bitch," I mutter under my breath.

"Gosalyn?"

"You've got all his stuff from the tower here?"

Devareaux considers my question as he stares at the computer with a look of confusion, and then the light bulb clicks on and he snaps his fingers. "Right! I'd forgotten. Most of what you see was designed based on the schematics your father left behind after he passed away. He ensured Director Hooter that his equipment would belong to the S.H.U.S.H. Agency in the event of his demise, so Hooter's successor stepped in after the Javelin fiasco to try to stop the bleeding." He turns to face me then, paling when our eyes meet. I think he realizes that his rambling is something I don't particularly care to listen to. "I'm sorry. I got sidetracked."

"That's fine. It's all beside the point anyway." I put my fists on my hips and glare at him. "Did you people even try leave anything intact? Or do you destroy everything you get your greasy fingers on?"

He grunts softly as he considers the question. "We don't destroy, Gosalyn."

"I wish I could believe that."

Charles shakes his head somberly. "It's not my job to convince you to believe me. I'm not going to ask you to. We took away something from you far more precious than any computer, or any schematic for any machine your father ever used to combat the criminal element back in his day."

"I would point out that the criminal element is still winning that battle." I feel the anger rising in me a little more with each passing moment of this conversation.

"And you'd be right. I admit it, Gosalyn, S.H.U.S.H. has not handled the situation well since your father was killed. Frankly we grew complacent, relying too much on those like your father in our most difficult battles. Almost as though we were training our enemies to better deal with those of us who would be left when the heroes of the world parted ways. S.H.U.S.H. agents had relaxed believing that Darkwing Duck and Gizmoduck and those who followed them would always be there to stand up for those who could not defend themselves. Grizzlikof realized it long before he and Darkwing ever came to their mutual understanding."

"And the innocent are those who suffer the most, isn't that right, Charles?"

"Yes. I'm afraid that's exactly how it is." Devareaux placed his hands on the computer before him. "This particular computer just so happens to be the pride and joy of S.H.U.S.H., for this is the computer through which we restored that part of us we lost all those years ago."

"So you're going to use him again, after all this time?"

Charles smiles. "That was his intention for leaving this equipment, Gosalyn. So yes, we are going to use him. Denying this gift would be denying him, the man he was. But you know, this gift was not intended for S.H.U.S.H. alone." He peers at me from the corner of his eye before keying in a sequence on one of the terminals. Before us the empty corner begins to shift.

The floor rose up and the walls swung out, opening up to reveal a flight of stairs beyond, ascending up into darkness.

"Come with me," he says, moving to the stairwell.

"Uh… where exactly are you taking me?"

"All in due time, Gosalyn. I could tell you, but … this is just something that you have to see for yourself."

* * *

**NEXT EPISODE: THE COVER OF NIGHT**


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